


Flying Off The Edge

by unwhithered



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Fuck Or Die, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Magic Made Them Do It, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-24 22:33:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22025530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unwhithered/pseuds/unwhithered
Summary: Jaskier trembles slightly, looking up at Geralt’s profile. They had not thought to ask if the creature’s victims assaulted only the women of the village. It had hardly seemed like relevant information at the time, but now...Jaskier feels foolish, and flushed with shame and fear. He knows Geralt has laid with men before, just as Jaskier has, and if the monster’s bite drives men lust crazed it hardly seems like the magic is likely to discriminate based on something as silly as gender.Or, Geralt hunts an unknown monster whose victims become lust crazed and die of fever if their urges are not fulfilled. This is not how Jaskier imagined having sex with Geralt, and he has imagined itoften. (Though the consent is definitely dubious, this is by no measure noncon. Please go elsewhere for that.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 378
Kudos: 9301





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I'm ashamed. I tried to resist. But this plot bunny has been lodged in my brain since the first day the show came out, so here it is...

The night is dark, the moon a waning sliver barely visible through the bare branches of dormant winter trees. Had they waited another night or two there would have been no moonlight to illuminate the way at all - not an obstacle for Geralt’s enhanced vision, perhaps, but Jaskier prefers not to break his ankles tripping over a stray root in the dark. At his back a banked fire provides more warmth than light. Just as Geralt taught him, Jaskier sits facing away from the fire so as not to ruin his night vision, staring out into the shadows at the edge of the forest. His lute sits beside him on the tree trunk he has turned into a seat, his fingers itching to wrap around its familiar neck and pluck its strings rather than tap nervously at the hilt of the long knife balanced across his knees.

_ For your protection, if you insist on following me into danger _ , Geralt had told him years ago when he first pressed the weapon into Jaskier’s hands. It was the first time Jaskier realized that Geralt cared for him, that their friendship existed outside of his own imagination. Of course, no amount of practice has been able to turn him from poet to warrior, but at least he is no longer a complete liability in a struggle. He is likelier to stick his adversary with the pointy end than himself. Once, during an ambush by common bandits, he even saved Geralt by gutting a man who had sprung on the witcher from behind. It would have been a prouder moment if Jaskier had not promptly vomited all over himself at the sight of his own hands covered in blood and entrails.

Tonight is not a night when Geralt will need protecting. Jaskier is unlikely to need his knife at all, but they hunting a creature of unknown type, whose habits they know only from the descriptions of terrified villagers who no longer dare to hunt or gather in the forest which provides half of their livelihood, and Geralt insisted that Jaskier be armed if he ventured into the woods. What they do know is this: the monster takes only men, mauling them with sharp teeth and claws, and it does not kill - not outright. Its powers are more insidious than that. Instead it mauls them and sends them on their way, always in the dark of night no matter what time they disappeared in the forest. When its unfortunate victims return to the small mountainside settlement they are no longer themselves. 

“Like a beast in rut,” a huntsman’s widow had said, her voice shaking. Feverish, glassy eyed and unnaturally strong, they forced themselves on whomever they encountered. If resisted, they lashed out in violence. Parties of men afflicted simultaneously would tear each other to shreds with their bare hands over the first woman they encountered. Capturing them did not improve circumstances much - the men would rage all night against the walls of the cellar that served duel purpose at the village jail, beating themselves bloody on the mud bricks, until they succumbed to fever in the morning. All died within the day. Those who remained free and...sated their base urges were reported to snap out of their haze in the morning, but Geralt and Jaskier had been unable to speak with any of those victims, either, only the families they left behind, for most had hung or poisoned themselves within days, while the rest fled into the forest never to be seen again.

It was a terrible tale. Jaskier doubts even he could spin a song from the tragedy that anyone could bear to hear, or he to sing. He will not forget the haunted eyes of the villagers, mostly women after months of menfolk falling prey to the creature, any time soon. 

Geralt, immune to most magics and many poisons and armed to the teeth, is their only hope. And though he may not be of use in this - or any - battle against a monster, Jaskier cannot simply wait safe behind the village gate while his friend ventures into danger. So he sits, back to the fire, knife on his knees, and Geralt’s small chest of potions and elixirs at his feet in case he returns in need of healing, and he waits.

He doesn’t have to wait long. Screeches and growls and the clang of metal burst from further into the forest well before midnight. Close enough that Jaskier recognizes Geralt’s grunts and growls, far enough away still that he does not stir from his seat, though cold anxiety floods his veins and his hands begin to shake on the knife’s hilt. It is hard to tell how long the fighting goes on - his worry makes it seem like ages, but when the woods fall silent once more and Jaskier glances up, the thin slice of moon is still hanging above him in the sky. Tempting though it is to venture towards where the noise had been coming from, Jaskier forces himself to remain still. He could stumble right past Geralt in the dark and never know it. Better to wait for the witcher to come to him.

Hearing Geralt before seeing him is unusual. For such a large man he moves on unnaturally silent feet, especially in the wilderness, but on this occasion Jaskier hears ragged breathing and unsteady footsteps before Geralt breaks the treeline and stumbles into the firelight. In the dim, flickering glow, the blood coating his chest and arms appears black and viscous, and his black eyes and wild white hair make Geralt almost as terrifying a sight as the monsters he battles.

“Jaskier,” Geralt rasps, and now that he has stumbled closer and Jaskier is on his feet, the flush high on Geralt’s usually pale cheeks is clear. “Jaskier, run.”

“Is it still alive?” Stepping closer to offer his support as Geralt sways on his feet, Jaskier peers into the darkness behind the witcher. “I’m not leaving you to face it like this, Geralt, you’re injured!”

“The creature is dead,” Geralt bites out. His massive, burning hot palm lands on Jaskier’s shoulder, blunt fingers digging in hard for just a moment before he pulls away as if bitten. “But I am injured. Do you understand, Jaskier? I have been  _ bitten _ , and I am not immune to its effects. You must run, my friend, before it overtakes me.”

“Don’t be stupid.” Though he aims for dismissive and joking, Jaskier’s voice is unsteady. He looks up into Geralt’s face and notes that the black of his eyes is not fading as it usually does after a fight, when the witcher’s elixirs begin to wear off. “I’m not leaving you here to die of a fever from infected wounds. One of your healing potions must be some sort of antidote.” Jaskier clutches at Geralt’s torn, bloodied sleeve and tugs him ineffectually toward the fire, all the while glancing nervously between Geralt’s face and the bloody wound at the base of his neck, an ugly bite. “Come, sit, we’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

“ _ Jaskier! _ ” Geralt’s voice booms through the small clearing, far too loud in the silent forest. He rarely yells - he does not have to, to command attention - and Jaskier nearly jumps out of his skin, immediately dropping his grip on Geralt’s arm. “Listen to me, you fool. Take Roach and ride for the village. I am too wounded to follow, you will be safe there. Everyone will be safe. But if you remain much longer I will kill you, or worse.”

“There are no women here for us to quarrel over, Geralt,” Jaskier argues shakily. Common sense tells him to follow Geralt’s orders and flee. Instinct born from years of friendship tells him to step closer and steady Geralt at the shoulder when he sways again. He listens to instinct, and does his best to ignore Geralt’s sharp inhale at his touch and the way Geralt slumps heavily against him.

“That is not what I am concerned about,” Geralt snarls, baring his sharp white teeth and looking anywhere but at Jaskier.

“Oh.”  _ Oh _ . 

Jaskier trembles slightly, looking up at Geralt’s profile. They had not thought to ask if the creature’s victims assaulted only the women of the village. It had hardly seemed like relevant information at the time, but now...Jaskier feels foolish, and flushed with shame and fear. He knows Geralt has laid with men before, just as Jaskier has, and if the monster’s bite drives men lust crazed it hardly seems like the magic is likely to discriminate based on something as silly as gender. 

Swallowing hard, Jaskier stands his ground. “If I leave, the fever will kill you before I return in the morning, if you do not find some passing victim to force yourself upon.”

“And if you stay,” Geralt replies, finally glancing back down at Jaskier. His cheeks are flushed and there is sweat upon his brow, and the firelight reflects eerily in his dark eyes. “If you stay, I will never forgive myself for what will happen. Jaskier, I beg you, you must go.”

In any other circumstance, Jaskier would have relished the witcher begging him for anything. It is a vulnerability Geralt has never allowed himself to show Jaskier before tonight. But by the Gods, Jaskier wishes Geralt had never felt the need to speak those words.

“No,” he denies, softly. “I will not leave you to die, and you will not need forgiveness. Whatever it takes to save you, I will do willingly, Geralt. Do you hear me? Take whatever you need from me. I give you my consent.”

“Jaskier, no.” It is a broken sound, pleading, more vulnerable than Jaskier has ever heard him. That, more than the way Geralt’s hands are suddenly tight at his shoulder and his hip, scares Jaskier. “No, I will not.” Geralt’s face is suddenly very close, his breath hot against Jaskier’s cheek. He stinks of his own coppery blood and the magic-tinged blood of the creature he slaughtered. “I will not harm you.” His fingers slip beneath Jaskier’s tunic, finding the thin skin of his hip and gripping hard enough to bruise. “I cannot…”

“You cannot,” Jaskier agrees, shakily, sure that Geralt can smell his fear but determined not to hesitate now that he has made his choice. “You cannot harm me, because I consent. Take what you need, Geralt, I give it willingly.” 

Whether Geralt is finally convinced or the power of the creature’s bite finally overwhelms him, Jaskier does not know, but in the next instant Geralt’s mouth crashes against his own. It is not how he imagined kissing Geralt would be - because he has imagined this before, many times during their travels together. How could he not, on nights when the cold forced them to huddle together and he woke with his nose tucked into Geralt’s neck and Geralt’s arm wrapped warm and strong around him, or when they bathed together in countless bathhouses and inns and rivers? But Jaskier never imagined the taste of Geralt’s blood, or that the witcher’s fingers would shake where they touched him.

\------------

Geralt has lived a long life - too long - and desired and bedded many women and men alike over the years. Once, long ago, he had even considered the possibility of taking Jaskier into his bed, before discovering he enjoyed the bard’s company too much for a simple tumble in the sheets. But in all his years wandering the continent, he has never felt desire like this before. His bones ache, and his skin burns with a need to touch. The pain of his wounds is forgotten the moment he touches Jaskier’s skin and feels the delicate flutter of his rapid pulse.

If Geralt were a better man, he would draw a knife and strike himself down before this goes any further. But Geralt is not a man, he is a mutant. And in this moment he is more like the monster he has often been called than ever before.

Once he has started, there is no stopping. Geralt knows, in the small part of his mind that is still functioning despite the foreign magic coursing through his veins, that if Jaskier changed his mind now he would not be able to let go. It is terrifying to lose every shred of control he has fought to maintain his whole life.

Their kiss does not last long. Geralt soon grows bored with Jaskier’s mouth, talented though it is, and pulls away to tear at the bard’s clothes. Ties rip and cloth shreds beneath his hands until there is nothing left. Jaskier is nude before him, shivering slightly in the cold night air. Geralt’s mouth waters as though he is a starving beast and his cock throbs against the laces of his pants, but something is wrong. 

When he glances down, he sees that Jaskier’s cock is still soft, nestled in the short, dark curls between his legs. Geralt growls low in his chest, an inhuman sound, and watches as Jaskier shivers again. He can taste fear in the air between them, but there is muted desire there as well. He’ll simply have to pursue it.

Divested of his own ripped and stained clothing, Geralt pulls Jaskier close again. The bard is pliant against him and unnervingly quiet, at least until Geralt bites down on the racing pulse in his throat. That draws a yelp. Perhaps in some twisted attempt to apologize, Geralt kisses and licks over the bruise quickly forming on Jaskier’s pale throat, only to move down half an inch and repeat the process, driven by a dark desire to mark and  _ claim _ . 

Before long Jaskier is shaking against him quite differently, and when Geralt’s hands stray lower he finds Jaskier half-hard and growing. He growls again and kneads Jaskier’s ass with one hand, jerks his cock briefly with the other until it is thick and hard in his grip. Jaskier’s hands are tangled in his long hair and pulling too hard for comfort, but the pain hardly registers. He needs more. He needs to be touched, to find his release, to…

They tumble gracelessly onto the bedroll laid out beside the dying fire, Geralt’s hand shielding the back of Jaskier’s head from the impact, but his weight landing heavily across the smaller man’s body. He doesn’t pull back even a hairs’ breadth, rutting against Jaskier’s belly, sweat pooling between them and easing the slide of their erections.

When Geralt comes mere moments later, it provides no relief. His seed splashes between them, hot and sticky, but the need coiling down Geralt’s spine does not ease. He drives his hips forward senselessly, biting his frustration into Jaskier’s delicate collarbones and groaning needy curses, until Jaskier moans raggedly and stripes their bellies with his cum. That, at least, brings Geralt a predatory and possessive flash of satisfaction before the need takes over once more. 

“Geralt, Geralt…” Jaskier’s moans have taken a different pitch, and his hands no longer cling to pull Geralt closer. He is squirming, overstimulated, between Geralt and the hard ground, with no avenue of escape. 

Geralt raises his head and snarls to silence him, and yet when Jaskier’s mouth snaps shut with an audible click and the scent of fear spikes between them once more something icy runs down his spine. He tries to slow, tries to pull away and let Jaskier move, but he cannot. Everything in him demands to be closer instead.

“Jaskier,” he pants against the bard’s throat, barely a word.

“It’s alright, Geralt,” Jaskier replies. His hands shake when they smooth down Geralt’s spine, skipping over knotted scars. “It’s alright. Take what you need. But, perhaps...allow me to turn over?”

Geralt does not so much  _ allow _ Jaskier to turn as he does manhandle him roughly onto his stomach, leaving barely enough room for Jaskier to push up onto his elbows and knees. Gods, is he grateful for the suggestion. The sight of Jaskier kneeling, legs spread, spine curved and head hanging low...Geralt lets out an animal sound of need and pushes closer once more.

\-----------

Jaskier is shaking, lust and fear and pleasure and pain all tangled up together and leaving him overwhelmed and helpless beneath Geralt’s hands. He keens as Geralt rubs his stubbled cheek against Jaskier’s lower back and bites a trail up the notches of his spine. It feels wrong to enjoy something that Geralt has no choice in, and yet he can’t help arching back into the touch. They have been in the wilderness at the edge of civilization for a long time, and he barely remembers the last time a woman touched him, let alone another man. 

“Yes,” he gasps, turning his head to the side to allow Geralt access to his neck. “Yes, Geralt, like that.” Maybe if he keeps talking, Geralt will remember and forgive himself. Maybe if he keeps talking Jaskier will not lose himself entirely in Geralt’s arms. He groans when Geralt’s cock slides between his thighs and nudges up behind his balls, tightening his legs instinctively and rocking back to meet him as his own cock gives a twitch of renewed interest.

They move together so easily, it is a tragedy they have never done this by choice - and now likely never will. Jaskier has no delusions that Geralt will be anything but disgusted in the morning, by his own lack of control and the pleasure Jaskier is taking from it, but for now he can pretend. Yes, Geralt’s grip on his hip is just the wrong side of painful. Yes, when the witcher reaches around to grip his cock against and stroke him in time with the roll of Geralt’s hips it is too much, too soon. But he would do anything for Geralt. Take any hurt to make him well again. Acting out his filthy fantasies wrapped in Geralt’s arms is hardly what Jaskier would call  _ suffering _ . 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sick and couldn't sleep and started writing this chapter at like 5am so apologies for any typos. I wanted to post it before I had second thoughts.

This deep in winter the days are short and the nights are long and freezing. Feverish and tangled up with Jaskier, Geralt barely feels the chill biting at his naked skin, but when Jaskier begins to shiver in earnest he has enough sense to throw a rough woollen blanket over them both. It scratches irritatingly at his oversensitive skin and traps them in a pocket of humid heat, but something in Geralt’s chest eases when Jaskier stops shivering and goes lax beneath him.

Geralt is vaguely aware that hours must have passed since he returned to the camp. The fire has died entirely, the moon has disappeared from the sky, and yet his body does not tire - though his partner’s does. “Jaskier,” Geralt rasps, after wringing a third orgasm from the bard. It seems to be the only word his lips remember how to form. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispers, or perhaps whimpers, in reply. His face is hidden in the thin bedroll, only the flushed arch of his neck and pale shoulders visible to Geralt in their current position. At least a dozen bruises in the shape of Geralt’s mouth litter that stretch of skin. “Geralt, I’m going to pass out.”

“No!” The sharp bark surprises even Geralt. The idea of continuing with Jaskier’s unresponsive body turns Geralt’s stomach, and yet he knows he must continue. The night is long and dawn is still far off.

“Alright.” Jaskier chuckles weakly. “Alright. Then keep me awake, dear Witcher.”

There are elixirs in Geralt’s trunk that could keep a human such as Jaskier awake for days, and likely drive him insane in the process. Instead Geralt relies on novelty. He drags his fingers through the cum between Jaskier’s thighs and splattered across his ass, gathering it up - and how is there so much of it, when his balls still feel heavy and full and his gut clenches with the need to chase his release again? No matter. The more the better.

Jaskiers squeaks in surprise when Geralt’s thick, blunt finger breaches him. With little forethought and less patience Geralt drives it deep and slides another finger in alongside far too soon. He has only rarely done this in the past, and only with...professionals. In the morning, he will hope desperately that it was not Jaskier’s first time being taken in such a way. For now he is going mad with the desire to feel more of Jaskier, to be deeper inside of him, to replace his fingers with his cock and rut into Jaskier. Only the slight tremble running up Jaskier’s spine slows Geralt.

“I suppose that’s one way to keep me up,” Jaskier groans, propping himself up just enough to look back over his shoulder at Geralt. He is beautiful, his hair a tangled, sweaty mess, his lower lip bruised and bitten, and his eyes glassy with lust. Geralt wants to fuck him and never stop. The small part of Geralt that is still sane, locked away deep within himself, wants to run as far away from him as he possibly can. “Gods, Geralt,  _ gentle _ or you’ll break me in half.”

Jaskier sounds worried for the first time and Geralt’s chest tightens. All he can say, stupidly, is “ _ Jaskier _ ,” muffled against the curve of his ass as he watches his own fingers sink into Jaskier, stretching him wide.

“It’s alright, Geralt,” Jaskier breathes. “I won’t really break. But I may not be able to walk tomorrow.”

Geralt grunts in reply. Tomorrow seems very far away. There is only tonight, and Jaskier, and the  _ need _ burning through his veins like a poison until he cannot restrain himself any longer. Rearing up on his knees, Geralt drags Jaskier with him and right into his lap. For a brief moment they are tangled in the blanket and Jaskier is flailing awkwardly, slipping out of Geralt’s grip, and his heart skips a beat as his grip tightens. Then everything settles and Jaskier is straddling his lap, facing Geralt once more and exactly where Geralt wants him. 

“ _ Jaskier,” _ he whispers, close enough to feel Jaskier’s breath on his cheek. The bard’s thighs tremble on either side of his own, too overtaxed and weak to support his weight, and Geralt steadies him with one hand while the other grips his own cock, still painfully hard after four orgasms. 

“Go on then, Geralt.”

The permission is intended for tomorrow’s Geralt, the sane Geralt locked inside his own mind, for the lust crazed monster of the night certainly doesn’t need it. Geralt lifts Jaskier easily and lowers the bard onto his cock, surging up to meet him halfway. It’s too fast, leaving Jaskier scrambling for something to grip, finally grabbing fistfuls of Geralt’s hair as he buries his face in Geralt’s neck and whimpers.

The tight, slick heat of Jaskier gripping his cock is intoxicating. Geralt is sure it is the best thing he’s ever felt, and he chases his own pleasure with sharp snaps of his hips, his hands on Jaskier’s ass and his mouth on the bard’s shoulder. When he reaches for Jaskier’s cock once more the other man bats him away weakly, whimpering and mumbling something into Geralt’s neck that sounds like  _ too much _ , though for Geralt it is not enough.

He can feel his fifth orgasm building at the base of his spine when the first rays of the sun burst through the bare tree branches above them. Geralt gasps in a lungful of clean, cold air that smells like sweat and blood and arousal, and feels his fever break. Suddenly he can feel the cold again, and the ache of the half-healed bite at the base of his neck, the sting where Jaskier’s nails have carved jagged lines into his shoulders. He is himself once more - and yet he does not stop.

Damn him, he doesn’t stop. He pulls Jaskier closer, buries his face in his friend’s neck, and rocks up into him a few more times before coming inside of him with a roar of pleasure.

Moments later Geralt collapses onto his back, shaking and panting, with Jaskier sprawled bonelessly across his broad chest. He has just enough sense to drag the blanket back over them both before the darkness pulls him under.

\---------

The sun is high in the sky by the time Jaskier wakes, though its light is weak and cold. He snuggles closer to the wall of warmth beneath him, willing himself back to sleep, hoping to leave behind the aches and pains that come with wakefulness. Something is tickling his nose, however, and his full bladder refuses to let him fall back asleep. 

Grumbling irritably, Jaskier rolls over - and promptly falls several inches onto a hard, cold surface. Pain flares from the top of his spine to his aching knees, only worsening when he sits up.

“Owww,” he groans softly. His abdomen protests and his thighs quake as he levers himself off of the ground and takes several stumbling steps away from the man still sprawled unconscious on the cold ground. The last thing he wants is to wake Geralt before he has had time to clean up and explore the extent of the damage last night has done to him. Jaskier refuses to think of it as the damage  _ Geralt _ has done to him.

Abandoning yesterday’s clothes as a lost cause better suited to use as rags, he stumbles to where Roach is dozing, hobbled, on the other side of the small clearing. She opens one eye and watches calmly as he rifles through the saddle bags slung over a tree branch beside her. As a bribe for her silence, and reward for her tolerance last night, he digs out a handful of oats to feed her before unearthing a change of clothes, a clean rag, and a small knob of soap from his meager possessions. His own stomach is rumbling with hunger but his only thoughts are for washing away his guilt and shame.

There is a small stream just on the other side of a row of dense brush, too shallow for habitation by any unsavory creatures, its waters clear and icy cold. Jaskier is shivering before he even dips a toe in, but for once he does not flinch or whimper. He wets the rag and soap and scrubs himself from the crown of his head to the bottoms of his filthy feet. Even his hair is sticky and tangled from Geralt’s fingers and Gods only know what else, and every few inches of skin cleaned of dirt and blood and cum seems to reveal a new bruise. Teeth, fingerprints, the outline of both of Geralt’s massive hands cupped over Jaskier’s hip bones, red-raw patches of burn from Geralt’s stubble. Jaskier cannot remember ever looking quite so wrecked before. 

Most of the blood, at least, was Geralt’s or the monster’s. Several bites along Jaskier’s collar bone broke the thin skin and he is careful not to disturb their scabs. Geralt can smell blood, he knows.

By the time Jaskier is beginning to feel clean his skin is red and sore, his teeth are chattering, and the soap is little more than a flake in his hand. Yet his stomach is still tied in miserable knots at the thought of returning to the campsite and waking Geralt. The Witcher will never look at Jaskier the same way after last night, he knows. He made a sacrifice no self respecting man should make. Worse still, he enjoyed it. He took pleasure from Geralt’s lack of choice and for that he will never forgive himself. 

If he was not sure Geralt would drive himself mad with blame and worry Jaskier would collect his things and leave before he wakes. Fortunately or unfortunately, that choice is taken from him, for when he turns back toward the bank he is greeted by a sight that makes him freeze. The soap and rag drop from his numb fingers.

Geralt is standing silently beside Jaskier’s pile of clothes, watching him with an expression Jaskier has never seen before and hopes he never will again.

\------------

Geralt wakes cold and disoriented. He bolts upright immediately, only to be slowed by a pounding head and aching muscles. It feels as though he drank himself stupid last night and then engaged in a brawl. An instant later he remembers what actually happened, and the reality is so much worse.

“Jaskier?” Geralt calls, desperately searching the clearing with his eyes as he lurches to his feet. There is no sign of the bard outside of a crumpled pile of clothes that, upon further inspection, are torn and streaked with blood. The same blood that stains Geralt’s skin and blackens his nail beds. Geralt has no way of knowing how much of it is his own, how much the monster’s, and how much he may have extracted from Jaskier during his craze.

Has the bard wandered off to lick his wounds in privacy? Fled in fear before Geralt could wake and inflict more harm upon him? Is he injured somewhere and unable to go on, or has he been attacked by some other horror lurking in the woods?

Geralt is sensible enough to pull on his breeches and boots and seize a wicked hunting knife before chasing after him, but only just. He bolts in the most likely direction without even doing up his laces. 

Finding the bard is no trouble at all. Jaskier has wandered no further than the nearby stream, where he is standing in the snowmelt and scrubbing at his reddened skin, so intent on his task that he does not seem to notice Geralt bursting through the undergrowth. Or perhaps he would simply rather not acknowledge Geralt’s presence - he could hardly be blamed for that.

Whatever the reason, Jaskier’s silence allows Geralt long minutes to study his form. They have bathed together innumerable times over their years of travel and in that time Geralt has looked his fill more than once, but it has never felt like this before. It has never left him breathless and nauseous with guilt to study Jaskier’s form. The man is slight and muscular from their hard travels, his hip bones and clavicles protruding sharply from his pale skin, with a dusting of dark hair on his chest and abdomen that Geralt now knows is soft to the touch. Geralt is sure he will never forget that, just as he will never forget the warmth of Jaskier around him, the taste of his skin, the taste of his  _ blood. _

Geralt nearly retches when he sees broken skin in the shape of his own teeth. The marks he left on Jaskier are nothing short of monstrous. For all the violence Geralt is capable of inflicting, he has never much enjoyed harming his lovers. He has never wanted to be the monster in bed that he is so often called by strangers. But only a monster would choose to do this to a friend rather than strike himself down, no matter that Jaskier offered it. The man could not have possibly known he was offering this.

When Jaskier turns and finally meets his eyes, Geralt nearly bolts. He might have, if he had not seen the blue tinge of Jaskier’s lips and heard the chattering of his teeth, or watched him stumble on shaking legs and nearly fall in the mud at the edge of the stream.

Geralt steps forward and catches Jaskier by the shoulders before he knows what he’s doing. “Jaskier,” he murmurs hoarsely. “You’re going to freeze to death, you fool.”

It isn’t what he wants to say at all. Geralt knows he should be apologizing. He should beg for Jaskier’s forgiveness on his knees, though he does not deserve it. Instead he grabs Jaskier’s cloak from the ground and swings it around the bard’s shivering shoulders, touching as little of his skin as possible in the process. Whether it is exhaustion or fear or something else that causes Jaskier to hold still and let Geralt do as he pleases, he does not know.

“Geralt--”

“Hush,” Geralt chides, shoving the rest of Jaskier’s clothes into his arms. “Dress, before you collapse. We have to return to town before you really do freeze. Whatever must be said can be said there.”

\---------

Jaskier watches dumbly as Geralt retreats. That was...not what he had expected, in any of the dozen possible scenarios he had imagined. And yet Geralt is right, as usual. 

Jaskier is so clumsy from the cold that it takes him long minutes to pull his clothing on beneath the shelter of the cloak. His numb fingers are useless, forcing him to leave the laces of his breeches and tunic untied and making struggling into his boots a painful process. When he returns to camp, clumsily holding his sagging breeches up, he is left speechless again.

Geralt has dressed and packed their meager camp away efficiently and is securing the last bag behind Roach’s saddle with still blood stained hands. A severed head that Jaskier had not noticed at the edge of the clearing the night before is now tied in place as well - proof that the task is completed, so the villagers cannot refuse payment. Geralt is logical as ever, even in the face of...whatever this is.

“Geralt,” Jaskier calls softly from his place leaning against a tree. He has stopped shivering, though with the numbness in his limbs has only grown. That cannot be a good sign. “Geralt, I think I’m going to pass out.” 

Unlike last night, this time Jaskier follows through on the warning. The last thing he sees before his legs buckle and the world goes dark is Geralt’s face, wearing an expression Jaskier might have called fear on any other man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I did not expect the response to the first chapter to be so large already. I guess this is what it's like to actually be in an active fandom? Anyway, come gossip with me about our Witcher feels on tumblr (also as unwhithered) while I write the next two chapters.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man I've always written for really small/older/not that active fandoms so the response to this has been super overwhelming and amazing! Thank you so much to everybody who has read this and left kudos and comments. I've been sick all week and you are legit one of the few bright spots in my holiday season at the moment.

Roach is not pleased with the weight of two full grown men on her back, especially when one of them is unconscious and bouncing around like a sack of turnips. Geralt speaks to her softly as they trot toward the village, promising her fresh hay and a thorough rub down, and pats her neck when he dares to briefly let go of his grip around Jaskier’s waist. The bard is still worryingly unresponsive when they reach the village gates an hour later, his head lolling against Geralt’s shoulder. Though Geralt is sweating in all the places Jaskier’s back is pressed to his chest, Jaskier’s skin remains clammy and cool when Geralt reaches beneath his cloak to check. His heart beats too slowly for Geralt’s comfort. At least he had resumed shivering not long after Geralt bundled his still form onto Roach’s back.

“Witcher!” The tavern keeper, a stout middle aged woman who has been a widow longer than the monster had occupied the nearby woods, calls out as she hurries from her kitchen garden to meet him in the town’s small square. More townsfolk, the majority of them women, begin appearing in windows and pouring out of houses at the sound of her voice. “When you did’nae return in the morning we thought you had died.”

“I am very much alive, Madame Luskin,” he responds, leaping easily from Roach’s back. Jaskier pitches forward instantly without his support and Geralt reaches up to steady him without even looking. With his other hand Geralt unties the severed head from the saddle and tosses it carelessly into the center of the square. “That is your monster, though I must admit I am still unsure as to its species. There is no sign of a nest or a mate in the forest. Your men ought to be safe hunting once more. My companion, however, was injured in the process.

“Not bitten,” he reassures, when several of the gathered villagers recoil in horror. “But badly bruised, and hypothermic. I would be very grateful for a bed and a fireplace, or even a haystack in your stable, for lodging until he is well again.” It is the most Geralt has spoken to anyone other than Jaskier in weeks, if not months, and he shifts imperceptibly from one foot to the other while he waits for an answer. People are often eager to see a Witcher when there is danger, and more eager still to see his back once their monster has been disposed of. If they refuse him a place to stay perhaps he can at least pay one of the local widows to care for Jaskier while Geralt goes on his way. It would not be the coward’s way out if it was his only choice to ensure Jaskier’s health.

“Witcher, more houses stand empty in this village than full,” Madame Luskin sighs wistfully. “You may have your pick of them, and stay for as long as you need. Come, I’ll show you the way.” 

Geralt follows when she beckons, nudging Roach along from the side while keeping his hand on Jaskier’s waist. She has the slow, waddling walk of a woman who has known a hard life of work and born too many children, and Geralt has to restrain his impatience as they plod toward the edge of the village. This is more kindness than he has been offered by a human aside from Jaskier in Gods only know how long. He will not risk Jaskier’s health by snapping at the hand that provides.

“This house here belonged to a hunstman and his wife not a month ago,” Luskin explains as she opens a small gate and leads him through an overgrown garden plot. “The poor woman left with the traveling traders after he...well, after. Anyway, it hasn’t sat empty long. No one has had the heart to scavenge it. There’ll be wood for the fire and blankets for your friend, and there’s a barn round back for your little mare. I’ll send one of my kitchen girls by with food and ale, and the payment you’re owed from the town council.”

“Thank you,” Geralt says, haltingly, as they stop in front of the door to the little cottage. He remembers suddenly that the woman had mentioned a son around Jaskier’s age when they were asking around about the creature’s victims and repeats himself more sincerely. “Thank you, Madame, for your kindness.”

The woman only grunts and waves her hand dismissively in reply, as if welcoming a Witcher into her village and making him comfortable is nothing to her. Maybe it is. Geralt lets her go without further conversation and sets to work hauling Jaskier down from the saddle and carrying him through the creaky door. Good, that will warn him if anyone approaches in the night.

Inside the cottage the meager furnishings are covered in a thin layer of dust, but everything appears to be in order. Geralt sets Jaskier on the bed with more care than he might if Jaskier were simply ill and strips off the bard’s cloak and the slightly damp clothes beneath as quickly as he can. He does not let his touch or his gaze linger, and flips the pile of abandoned blankets over Jaskier’s naked form before turning to the fireplace. He clears the cobwebs, kindles a fire, and watches idly as spiders scurry up the chimney while he builds the flames. 

The sun is already sinking below the horizon and stealing what little natural warmth lingered in the cabin. Any other time Geralt would have stripped down to his own underclothes, or less, and climbed into the bed to share his body warmth with Jaskier. They have done it before, but he cannot force his presence on his friend now. He cannot bear the thought of how Jaskier might look at him if the bard awoke in his arms after last night’s events. He is glad to have been spared that by Jaskier waking first this morning, cowardly though it is to admit.

Instead of fussing over Jaskier further, as instinct is telling him to, Geralt ventures back outside to care for Roach. He had promised her a rub down and a good meal, after all. Tonight she will even have the shelter of a barn while Jaskier rests in a real bed, no less than either of them deserve. 

Geralt will sleep on the floor.

\---------

Jaskier wakes warmer and more comfortable than he has been in weeks. A pile of furs and roughspun blankets pin him to a real bed, on a mattress wide enough that none of his limbs have fallen off the edge and gone numb in the night. It is the height of luxury compared to the roadside camps he and Geralt make most nights.

_ Geralt-- _

Jaskier’s voice comes out a hoarse croak when he tries to repeat the name aloud. His throat is as dry as a desert and hunger gnaws at his belly, reminding Jaskier that his last meal was far too long ago considering how dark it is outside the narrow window across from the bed. A thoughtful someone has left a flagon of ale on the low bedside table, which he drinks in one breathless gulp, alongside a hunk of bread and pale yellow cheese which he ignores.

“Geralt,” he repeats, wincing at the raw edge in his own voice. He cannot deny the fear that Geralt has left him in some unfamiliar place alone and fled, unable to look upon Jaskier any longer. Good Gods he hopes he is wrong.

Slipping out of the bed on bare feet, Jaskier shivers when he touches the hard packed dirt floor. So he is on the ground level - easier to sneak out unnoticed and chase after Geralt, if he is gone. Though he will have to find his clothes first, as it seems whoever put him to bed left him nude. Shivering miserably already, Jaskier pulls a well worn quilt from the pile on the bed and wraps it around his shoulders before shuffling toward the hearth. Its embers, glowing dully, look promising, and Jaskier suspects that the irregular square shadow beside the fireplace is a wood pile. Light, and warmth, and then the search for Geralt can resume.

Jaskier doesn’t make it far. There is an irregular shadow halfway between the bed and the hearth which he dismisses as a dip in the floor, only to tumble gracelessly, headfirst toward the fire, when it turns out to be a rise instead. A soft rise, which emits an angry growl and bolts upright just in time to save Jaskier from a nasty burn.

Geralt reels Jaskier back to safety while the bard curses his own stupidity in several languages and tries desperately to slow his racing heart. “Witcher,” he laughs nervously, collapsing onto one end of a nest of blankets Geralt has built beside the hearth. Only Geralt’s eyes, glowing like a cat’s in the darkness, betray that Geralt is watching him from the other end. “You really must stop saving my skin like that.”

There is a long pause in which Jaskier’s stomach ties itself in knots before he hears Geralt sigh. “It’s the least I owe you, given that you saved my life last night.”

“You owe me  _ nothing,” _ Jaskier hisses, anger flaring hot in his belly for no reason he can identify. Maybe he resents the implication that he is a whore whom Geralt owes something in exchange for sex. Maybe anger is simply easier to cope with than the ache of guilt and shame and fear that has a vice grip on his heart.

“Jaskier, I owe you everything.” As soon as Jaskier opens his mouth to protest again, Geralt growls. It is a terrifying sound in the darkness. “My life, my gratitude, my apologies in every language of man and beast. I took from you what no man should ever take from a friend, and for that I am sorry. Truly sorry.”

Jaskier snorts derisively, angrily, baring his teeth. If only he could see Geralt’s stupid face in the darkness so that there was a target for his boiling rage. Alas, he does not have a witcher’s eyesight. “You cannot take what is freely given, you senseless oaf.”

“You could not possibly have understood what you were offering, Jaskier. You are a loyal friend and you saved my life at your own expense, but I would rather turn my sword on myself than force myself upon you like that. Do not seek to absolve me of my guilt with empty assurances of your willingness.”

“Do not tell me what I understand, as if I am a helpless child.” Jaskier surges to his feet, fighting off the rush of dizziness that comes with such quick movement. He cannot have this conversation sitting politely across from Geralt, as if it is any other night beside a fire. He doesn’t think he can bear to have this conversation at all, but he doesn’t seem to have a choice. His Witcher is an idiot. “I understood the bargain - one night, for your life. My dignity or your death. It was an easy choice for me. It is one I can live with. What I cannot bear, Geralt, is having taken your choice from you - hearing that you would rather have died than laid with me. Knowing that I took some measure of enjoyment from your suffering.  _ That _ is a guilt I will take to my grave. You, Witcher, have nothing to apologize for.”

Silence falls between them. Jaskier no longer wishes he could see Geralt’s face, has no desire to see the reaction to his admission, the inevitable disgust. He does not need that etched into his brain beside the memory of Geralt’s cock in his ass and teeth against his throat.

Eventually, Jaskier moves back toward the bed, turning his back on Geralt. “I’ll leave at first light,” he promises as he sinks to the mattress. His legs are shaking and he can feel the bruises between his thighs, on his ass -  _ everywhere. _ Jaskier presses viciously at one of the scabbed bites on his collar bone as he adjusts the blanket around his shoulders, only realizing his mistake when his fingertips come away sticky. The scab has cracked and he hears Geralt breathe in deeply as a fresh trickle of blood runs down Jaskier’s chest.

“ _ Jaskier _ ,” Geralt growls into the darkness.

\----------

“ _ Jaskier _ .” Gods, has he been bewitched again? Is that all he can say, in the face of Jaskier’s confession, in the face of his hurt? Geralt rolls to his knees and snatches Jaskier’s hand when it returns to prodding at the wound. It takes everything in him not to pull away when Jaskier flinches from his touch. Jaskier, unlike so many of his kind, is not afraid of Geralt - or he wasn’t, before last night.

“Jaskier, I did not stop. At dawn. The spell broke, and I continued, I  _ used _ you when you were hurt and helpless. Do not hurt yourself further.”

In the low light Geralt can see every detail of Jaskier’s face perfectly. His lips are still swollen, bruised like his jaw, his neck, the small strip of shoulder visible where the quilt has sagged from his pale shoulder. Geralt’s fingers itch to smooth salve over the wounded skin, but he did not dare presume to touch while Jaskier was asleep. And though Jaskier slept half the day away, the bard still looks exhausted. His eyes are tired and unfocused behind pale lashes, unable to see in the dark, and when he closes them Geralt notices the dark circles beneath, the two days of stubble beginning to darken his jaw. Geralt knows exactly what the thin, soft skin beneath Jaskier’s jaw tastes like, and how easily it bruises between his teeth.

Shuddering, Geralt bows his head and lets his shoulders slump. His forehead rests on Jaskier’s knees, warm through the worn old quilt, and his breath leaves him in ragged gasps.  _ I did not stop. _ It is unforgivable, no matter what Jaskier was willing to sacrifice for Geralt’s life.

“Oh, Geralt.” Jaskier’s sigh is fond and familiar. It is jarringly out of place with the fury from only minutes ago. 

The bard’s fingers are too cold when they slide beneath Geralt’s chin, cup his cheeks, tug insistently until Geralt raises his head. Jaskier’s eyes are hazy and fixed somewhere around Geralt’s ear when he finally looks up into Jaskier’s face once more, and his smile his small and sad. Geralt’s chest aches.

“What a pair we make, tying ourselves in knots with our guilt, speaking without ever really hearing each other.” Jaskier laughs, close enough that Geralt can feel the puff of his sleep stale breath and leaning closer still. Geralt holds himself painfully still when the bard knocks their foreheads together. He hardly even dares to breathe as his lungs fill with the scent of Jaskier - blood and skin, cheap soap, forest and a lingering hint of Geralt that he did not manage to scrub away in that damned freezing stream.

“I forgive you,” Jaskier breathes into the space between them, his nose brushing Geralt’s cheek. 

“ _ Jask--” _

“Shhh, Geralt. I forgive you. Do you forgive me?”

“I--”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come join my over on tumblr at [unwhithered](https://unwhithered.tumblr.com/). I post bits of things as I work on them usually and would love to talk about the Witcher and these stupid boys with anyone!


	4. Chapter 4

“I do not know what there is to forgive, Jaskier,” Geralt admits. His breath smells like ale, hot against the cool skin of Jaskier’s cheek. This close Jaskier can smell the soap Geralt must have washed with while he was unconscious, the sweat that still lingers in his hair, the smoke and forest scent of him. It’s all much more pleasant than the blood and gore he was coated in last night. “I am glad for what you seek forgiveness for. I…” 

There is a long silence. For once, Jaskier does not seek to fill it, nor does he pull away and interpret it as rejection. He waits. He gives the the usually taciturn Witcher time to think, but no space.

“I feared I brutalized you as the villagers did their women. That you took some pleasure in it was the best that I could hope for, the best that I could try for, with what little control I had.”

Jaskier laughs, rough and nearly silent, his nose nudging up against Geralt’s. His fingers are still pressed to the underside of Geralt’s jaw, where he can feel Geralt’s heavy swallow. Perhaps laughter was not the kindest response to Geralt’s admission. “You were very thorough in ensuring my enjoyment. So very thorough that I can still hardly move.”

It’s Geralt’s turn to chuckle. Jaskier is close enough to feel it rumble through Geralt’s chest and throat, just as his growls and groans had last night. This time when he shivers it has nothing to do with the cold air creeping in around the edges of the quilt. Not that Geralt knows that, and the Witcher reaches up and tugs the quilt more snugly around Jaskier’s shoulders, the backs of his fingers brushing the base of Jaskier’s throat where purple-red marks darken the skin. 

“Then don’t move,” Geralt replies softly, and oh.  _ Oh _ . Maybe he does know why Jaskier is trembling, because when he meets Jaskier’s eyes in the dim light his are dark, pupils blown wide, and his nostrils are flaring like they do when he’s scenting something. Jaskier swallows hard and nods agreeably while Geralt stands. 

Jaskier can’t see much beyond the faded quilt covering his knees. There is no moonlight - he remembers the small sliver of it in the sky last night, how it had reflected off of Geralt’s hair and disappeared into the deep wells of his black eyes, and given Jaskier just enough light to watch everything Geralt did to him. Now he can only listen as Geralt moves in the dark, and he knows Geralt is moving noisily for his benefit or else his bare feet would be soundless. 

When Geralt returns, kneeling in front of Jaskier once more, he presses a small bundle into Jaskier’s hands. “Eat,” he commands, and then more hesitantly, “May I?” as he reaches for the blanket wrapped close around Jaskier’s shoulders.

It’s unusual for the Witcher to ask permission. Usually if he wants to touch Jaskier, he does so without warning - shoving him out of harm’s way, cuffing him lightly on the back of the head when a joke goes too far, jostling his shoulder companionably beside the campfire or in a tavern, even pulling him close in the night when the temperature drops dangerously and Jaskier’s teeth begin to chatter. Jaskier nods in silent permission, though he has no idea what Geralt intends to do.

In the end Geralt only peels the blanket away from Jaskier’s neck, letting in a rush of cool air that is quickly replaced by something warm and wet. A rag, Jaskier realizes, dipped in a bucket of water Geralt has hauled over. It must have been resting by the fire to keep from freezing over in the night. For all of their sword calluses, Gerlat’s hands have always been surprisingly gentle the few times he has cleaned and bandaged Jaskier’s wounds and this time is no different. He dabs carefully at the blood still dripping from Jaskier’s broken scabs, cleaning away the evidence of the damage wrought by his own teeth.

Jaskier’s eyes drift closed as Geralt dips the cloth in the bucket and runs it over the whole line of scabbed bites along his collarbone. Only the uncomfortable rumbling of his stomach prompts him to open the bundle in his hands and finally bite into the hard cheese and day old bread it contains, groaning appreciatively.

\---------

Geralt counts the bruises visible on Jaskier’s neck, collar and chest as he checks for infection in the ones that broke the skin. At least two dozen bite marks of varying darkness and depth and the imprint of his palm mar Jaskier’s pale skin. Something dark and possessive in Geralt yearns to fit his hand over the print at the base of the bard’s neck again, not to choke, not to harm, just to push him back onto the bed and--

Geralt swallows hard and looks away, wringing out the cloth and dropping it back in the bucket. He should return it to the hearth or else it will be frozen in the morning. Instead he reaches up and tucks the blanket back around Jaskier’s trembling shoulders, his hands lingering, straying upwards to brush a crumb from the corner of the bard’s reddened, puffy mouth. He remembers how those lips taste. He finds that he does not want to forget.

“Geralt,” Jaskier sighs when he has finished eating, tipping his head and rubbing his cheek against Geralt’s hand like a cat. “Are you going to kiss me, or must I do  _ all _ the work?”

“I...cannot,” Geralt replies, frowning. He regrets the words as soon as Jaskier pulls away from his touch, but he doesn’t know how to explain what he really means. Jaskier, always quicker with his words, is speaking before Geralt can even try.

“Oh. I-I misinterpreted you. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t assume -- no, of course. Well. Thank you for taking care of me, and don’t worry, I won’t press you. This will be the last you hear of it, Ger--”

Geralt’s growl of frustration cuts him off mid-word. Speechless is a good look on Jaskier, he decides as he closes the space between them, watching Jaskier for any hint of reluctance as their noses touch. “I cannot, after last night,” he tries again. He isn’t quite sure why but the thought of being the one to act turns his stomach. “But if you were to act, I would not stop you.”

It takes a moment. Jaskier blinks stupidly at him with those pretty blue eyes for several seconds before catching on, his mouth forming a soft  _ O _ in the instant before he closes the last inch between them. His mouth is soft, swollen, his lips chapped from the cold, and this time Geralt is not frantic with lust. This time he is slow, deliberate,  _ thorough _ . Beneath the taste of cheese and ale is the one that lingers in Geralt’s memory, warm and intoxicating. When Jaskier pulls away Geralt allows himself to kiss the bard’s jaw, flicking his tongue out to taste the skin there, and that too is familiar. Yet the breathy, desperate sound Jaskier makes is all new to him, half need and half laughter. Geralt catches it in his mouth, kissing the corners of Jaskier’s tired smile.

They kiss until Geralt’s knees ache from the cold floor and he can no longer ignore the way Jaskier shivers every time his blanket slips. This time Geralt feels no concern about taking the lead - Jaskier has given him permission, and is clearly as interested in the proceedings as he is. Every time Geralt inhales he can taste Jaskier’s growing arousal on the air and when they break apart the bard’s blue eyes are nearly black with lust. It is an appealing sight. 

Geralt’s knees crack as he stands, stretching out his legs slowly, and stoops over Jaskier. The bard looks very small in the darkness, wrapped up in some stranger’s home made blanket with the dull glow of dying embers reflecting in his eyes. Despite the interest in his eyes Jaskier is clearly exhausted, proven by how easily he tips backwards when Geralt gently shoves his shoulder. He grumbles something that might be a protest when Geralt begins piling the blankets at the end of the bed back on top of him, wools and furs and worn old quilts, only for the noise to die as soon as Geralt shucks off his own shirt and slides beneath the blankets as well.

The bed is big enough for two, but only just. Geralt fits most easily on his side, pressed all along the side of Jaskier’s body. He props his head up on one hand and leans in to nose along the sharp line of Jaskier’s jaw, inhaling the skin and clean sweat scent of him, and there, just behind his ear--

“You still smell like me,” he murmurs, dragging his lips along the shell of Jaskier’s ear.

“Yes, well,” Jaskier chuckles, his face flaming red. “You were quite thorough about  _ that _ as well.”

Geralt hums his acknowledgement. He has a vague memory of rubbing his come into Jaskier’s flushed skin, smearing it across his mouth, coating his fingers in it and using them to open Jaskier up for his cock. The creature’s bite had made him lust-crazed, but it had made him possessive, too. Geralt wonders if that is what spared Jaskier from harsher treatment - that Geralt cannot imagine ever truly harming what is his. And Jaskier is  _ his _ now, without a doubt.

When Geralt nibbles the lobe of Jaskier’s ear the bard shudders, letting out a pitiful whine. “Gentle,” he whimpers, “Or you really will break me.”

“Gentle,” Geralt agrees.

\---------

And gentle he is. Thorough, too, in a way Jaskier cannot remember ever experiencing from a lover before. The bard lies bruised and aching and nearly useless on the bed while Geralt hovers over him, seemingly retracing the same path as last night. Except in place of harsh bites he smothers Jaskier’s skin in open-mouthed kisses, his hot breath soothing the ache of bruises even as his stubble raises fresh red burns in its wake.

Jaskier whimpers when Geralt’s mouth closes around first one of Jaskier’s nipples and then the other, teasing with his tongue and just the edge of teeth. His fingers wind through Geralt’s hair and tug gently, pushing him downward. It startles Jaskier to realize that it may be the first time he has touched his companion’s hair. Last night he was holding on to Geralt for dear life, his nails gouging vicious trails in the Witcher’s shoulders that have already healed thanks to his mutations. Tonight he can  _ explore _ .

“Gods, Geralt,” Jaskier moans, letting the Witcher’s silky hair slip through his fingers before knotting them in tighter again. Geralt tilts his head to strain against the pull of it and groans, the sound rumbling against Jaskier’s hip where he is lavishing attention on a blue-black mark in the shape of his hand. Jaskier feels particularly small when he peeks beneath the blanket and sees the size of the mark, and the way Geralt’s fingers fit perfectly over its match on his other hip, curving around to where the bruise ends on his lower back. He thinks absently that if he were slightly less exhausted he might come just from the sight of Geralt hunkered down between his thighs, his mouth wet and open, Jaskier’s cock hard against his cheek.

When Geralt’s lips wrap around him for the first time he nearly does come, his hips jerking helplessly and an embarrassing sound wrenching from his throat. Only Geralt’s arm like an iron bar across his hips keeps him from fucking frantically into the warmth of his mouth until he spends. Instead Geralt sucks him as thoroughly as he has done everything else thus far, and Jaskier never would have guessed that Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken, was an accomplished cocksucker. 

It’s with that thought and the press of Geralt’s thumb against the rim of his sore hole that Jaskier comes, gasping and arching off of the bed. Geralt only hums smugly and swallows every drop before letting Jaskier’s cock slip from his mouth. 

“And now I smell like you,” Geralt murmurs, his voice even rougher than usual. Jaskier can only gasp helplessly for breath as Geralt’s tongue darts out to catch a trickle of seed escaping the corner of his lips. Good gods, he’s gorgeous. Slick red mouth and flushed cheeks, glinting cat’s eyes, silver hair escaping from its leather tie. Jaskier steals a breathless kiss and licks the taste of himself from Geralt’s lips with a groan.

“Let me return the favor,” he finally offers, reaching for Geralt’s length when the Witcher collapses beside him once more only to be batted away.

“In the morning,” Geralt replies. He smooths the blankets back over them and kisses the corner of Jaskier’s mouth before settling down, his large body curved around Jaskier’s smaller one. “Sleep, little bard. Everything will still be here in the morning.”

For once, Jaskier doesn’t have a smart remark to offer in return. He is  _ exhausted _ and Geralt smells of warmth and safety. All those muscles make for a surprisingly good pillow, and within minutes he is asleep with his head on Geralt’s chest, soft snores stirring his chest hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be the last chapter but I CANNOT seem to convince myself to tie this up and so now there will be a porny epilogue. 
> 
> I'm brainstorming what to do next over on my [tumblr](unwhithered.tumblr.com) if anyone would like to come offer suggestions. Up for consideration is a fake dating plot with lots of angst.


	5. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to get up, my life has kind of exploded and it was hard to find energy to write this week. But here we are. I can't believe I've written over 11,000 words in just a couple of weeks.

Jaskier wakes first. He often does, on nights when Geralt truly sleeps. Most of a witcher’s work is done under the cover of darkness and as a result Geralt is better suited to staying up late into the night and sleeping through the first soft light of morning. This time he is asleep with his head pillow on Jaskier’s chest, his silver hair spilling across pale skin and dark bruises, his breath warm on Jaskier’s nipple.

“Not a dream, then,” Jaskier murmurs to himself. Geralt’s hair is silky soft between his fingers and the Witcher groans in his sleep when Jaskier scrapes blunt nails gently across his scalp and down his neck. He finds a thick scar at the base of Geralt’s neck, twisted and ugly and just barely missing his spine. Not one Jaskier was present for the creation of. After a decade of traveling together there are still so many things he doesn’t know about Geralt. He just hopes that Geralt will let him stick around long enough to learn. 

“Not a dream,” Geralt rumbles, lips tickling where they drag across Jaskier’s skin.

“Oh! I thought you were asleep.”

“Nearly.” Geralt nuzzles against Jaskier, hiding his eyes from the light. Three days of beard growth scratches at sensitive, bruised flesh, but Jaskier cannot stir himself to care. His whole body has the pleasant ache of the well fucked and he has no desire to move out from under Geralt or the stack of warm blankets atop them. “I could stay in this bed with you forever.”

“That sounds like a very good plan to me,” Jaskier replies. He tugs gently on Geralt’s hair until the Witcher raises his head enough for a kiss. It’s soft and lazy, though it doesn’t take Jaskier long to coax Geralt to open his mouth and let Jaskier taste him. When they finally part Geralt’s eyes are hazy with something other than sleep. “There are a great many things I’d like to do to you in this bed.”

Geralt’s laugh is warm and soft, and even his small smile deepens the crow’s feet around his eyes. It is the most genuine expression of happiness Jaskier can ever remember seeing on his face. He can’t help tracing his thumb from the wrinkles beside Geralt’s eye to the upturned corner of his lips, then following the same path with his mouth, ending in a kiss that Geralt pushes into like a starving man. Jaskier groans, tugging on Geralt’s hair until he tilts his head just so and deepens it.

By the time Geralt rolls on top of him Jaskier is panting into the Witcher’s mouth, his cock stirring with interest against his thigh. Geralt is three steps ahead of him, already hard in his breeches and nudging against his hip when he settles between Jaskier’s thighs. Of course, Geralt had gone to bed unsatisfied last night - it’s only fair for him to be impatient now. Jaskier reaches into the warm space between them to unlace Geralt’s pants and shove them down his hips, leaving Geralt to kick them the rest of the way off. He is far too distracted by the hard cock that has sprung free.

“Gods above,” Jaskier groans, wrapping his hand around Geralt’s considerable girth. No wonder he was so sore yesterday. “You’re gorgeous.”

Geralt only hums in reply, his mouth busy on Jaskier’s neck. If they keep this up Jaskier suspects he will never be without a mark in the shape of Geralt’s mouth again. Gods, he hopes so.

“Come here,” Jaskier instructs. He hooks his knee around Geralt’s muscular thigh, aligns them properly, and rocks his hips up. The velvety drag of Geralt’s cock against his own has Jaskier hard in seconds, his hips stuttering. Geralt’s breath hitches and suddenly he is surging against Jaskier, rutting into the space between them. Sweat slicks the way before long and Jaskier can only hold on, letting Geralt slide against him, moaning into the demanding kisses his Witcher steals between breaths. 

“I’m going to fuck you tonight,” Geralt growls, kissing the corner of Jaskier’s mouth. “Properly this time.”

When he falls silent again Jaskier whines in protest. It isn’t often that Geralt speaks to him unprompted. The Witcher would doubtless be content to exist in silence for  _ days _ , so when he speaks Jaskier soaks it up, wheedling more words out of him at every opportunity. Especially now, when every rumble of Geralt’s voice vibrates through Jaskier’s chest and sends a spark down his spine and straight to his balls.

Geralt chuckles and nips at the hinge of Jaskier’s jaw, speaking directly into his ear this time. It makes Jaskier realize the bastard knows exactly what he’s doing. “I’ll open you up slow, little bard, with my tongue and my fingers. I’d bet anything that I can make you come just like that, without even touching your cock.”

“ _ Yes _ .” Jaskier whimpers, arching against Geralt. His nails are digging ugly red trails across Geralt’s shoulders as he tries desperately to find purchase on sweat slick skin.

“When you’re ready again I’ll fuck you.” Geralt draws Jaskier’s knee higher, wrapping the bard’s leg around his hip before sliding his hand down to knead the swell of his ass. “Just like this.” A twist of his hips and his cock slides down, nudging beneath Jaskier’s balls and then slipping into the cleft of his ass. It leaves Jaskier’s cock trapped against the washboard of Geralt’s abs as the Witcher rubs against his sensitive hole. 

Jaskier clenches involuntarily and moans, tangling his fingers in Geralt’s hair until Geralt tugs his hands free and forces them above Jaskier’s head. Pinned by the wrists by just one of Geralt’s massive, rough hands, Jaskier is spread out and helpless. But unlike two nights ago he feels no fear at all in the position. When Geralt’s eyes close and his nostrils flare Jaskier knows that he will be able to scent the complete absence of nerves and understand just how deep Jaskier’s trust runs without the bard ever uttering a word.

“Please,” Jaskier begs, mindless with need. He doesn’t even know what he’s begging for. His fingers flex and tangle uselessly in the blankets above his head, his hips hitching and rutting his cock against Geralt’s abdomen.

“Come for me, little bard,” Geralt commands before biting down hard just beneath Jaskier’s ear.

And he does. Jaskier’s cum splashes between them, coating their chests and bellies. He hears Geralt inhale deeply, scenting the air, the instant before he feels the Witcher’s release splash against his lower back and the cleft of his ass, Geralt’s thrusts dragging slick across his hole. 

When Geralt releases him it is only to roll to the side, pulling Jaskier after him so that the smaller man is sprawled across his chest. Soon they will stuck together by their own spend, sticky and uncomfortable, but until then Jaskier is content to nuzzle into Geralt’s collar and listen to the steady, slowing beat of his heart. 

If Geralt would let him, he would be content to spend every morning like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're done! I'm not sure when my next fic for this pair will be posted here, but I'll definitely be posting snippets on [tumblr](unwhithered.tumblr.com) while I work. It's between the fake dating AU and the soulmate AU because I'm enjoying trying my hand on the overused tropes for the first time.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has taken the time to comment and share their thoughts. I wish I'd had time to reply to all of them but the stress of real life derailed me pretty well. Just know y'all were the inspiration that kept me going.


End file.
